Take me away (we're dancing in the snow)
by charliethedreamer
Summary: Captain Swan AU: She's Emma Swan, dating the man whose father owns one of the biggest ski chalets in France. Supposedly, she has everything she could ever want. But when Killian Jones - charming, attractive, poor - takes on the job of chalet boy, perhaps she'll realise everything she's missing: fun, freedom, and most importantly, love. Very loosely based on the film Chalet Girl.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: First chapter of my new captain swan multichapte, based loosely on the film Chalet Girl. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or Once Upon A Time. Boo hoo._

* * *

There are a million things that Killian could be thinking, standing here, waiting for them to arrive by freaking _private jet. _Perhaps some whimsical notion such as how very _blue _the sky is, or how _bright _the sun is. Or it could be something more practical, like how his hands are _rather_ _cold_ and next time – because he's been informed that yes, there will be a next time – he should bring his gloves.

But no, Killian's thoughts consist of a very simple and yet not entirely answerable question. _What the fuck am I doing here? _

The answer isn't completely non-existent, and in fact, it depends what you define as _here. _If _here _is the landing pad then the answer is very easy. He is waiting for the arrival of the Golds – the quite frankly _loaded _owners of the overly extravagant chalet he is catering for – to arrive by the private jet they _own _(because, apparently, to take a _normal_ planelike _normal_ people is beyond them).

If you define _here, _however, as the whole fucking _Ski Resort_ then the answer is much less reachable. The reason for this being the fact that unlike other well brought up Eton or Harrow educated snot nosed public school boys, he is _not _here because Mummy and Daddy thought that being a Chalet boy would be a simply _splendid _way of learning how to cook and _hitting the slopes _at the same time. No – Killian Jones's knowledge of skiing is about as extensive as his knowledge of spacecrafts or nuclear power plants, and his desire to extend that knowledge is of the same limitation.

This only makes the _why the fuck am I here _question all the more difficult. If not to Ski or Snowboard why would any sane person apply for a job as a Chalet boy where snow sports are the only desirable factor – unless one enjoys making mind-numbingly boring small talk and serving rude, tight-lipped, upper class social climbers and serving champagne that could pay one's rent three times over. The answer to this question lies with the catering agency; one Killian had been effectively _bullied _into approaching.

Said bullying was courtesy of Whale, who had acquired the idea from a friend of a friend. Of course, he had made it sound better than _this; _saying that you simply pretend to be 'posh' for a few hours, make some food, add unneeded shavings of various herbs to the food, serve the food, resist the temptation to step on the customer's feet and _voila – _money everywhere and the long awaited escape from the playing-songs-at-crappy-bars career.

What his blonde friend hadn't taken into account was that just as the woman who ran the agency was about to _politely _decline him – him being the only person out of all the applicants with _any _knowledge of the working world but also the only one without some ridiculous double-barrelled surname – the chalet girl from one of the biggest effing chalets in the entirety of the Alps would break her leg (Skiing: _dangerous) _and his services would be rather reluctantly required after all.

And, not just that, but they would be required for _the rest of the Ski season._ Three months. Working as a Chalet boy. Not being able to Ski. No intention of _learning _to ski. Naturally, Killian had declined. But, alas, it was a declination that had lasted just as long as the pause before they had announced the game changer – the pay.

After that – the overnight train to France being a lengthy _four hours _after the call – it had been rushed packing – how does one pack for the mountains when the closest they've been to snow is that one harsh winter they had when him and pretty much the rest of London had more or less stayed indoors? – saying goodbye to friends and turning back for his guitar despite having just about managed to convince himself that it would be a nuisance to transport and he would have to do without (as if he could ever go three months without his baby).

He'd managed about four hours of sleep on the train before _they'd_ woken him up again – just as vivid and scorching and blinding as usual – and he'd spent the rest of the journey doing absent minded doodles of nothing in particular and looking out the window with a promise to kill Whale for ever suggesting this before _the Eurostar_ had pulled to a steady halt in the middle of a mountain range. Fantastic.

From there he'd been picked up by some American chick named Regina – red lipstick, raven hair, sceptically raised eyebrow at his guitar – the other employee of Mansion de la Posh – or Mansion de la _Gold_ as she had said – and they'd proceeded on the half hour drive from the station to said Mansion.

And – after showing him to his room and explaining to him the three fundamental rules of Chalet Personing (1. Do whatever you like all night as long as breakfast is on the table at eight. 2. No having people over at the house. 3. Don't fuck the clients.) – she'd received a call from the god damn _pilot _saying that they were almost landing.

Thus how Killian has ended up leaning against the large black Land Rover having his hair whipped back and ears invaded by the obnoxiously loud sound of a small aeroplane landing whilst he tries to fathom his thoughts into something that might serve as an explanation why he's here.

And – just as the door to the plane opens – he manages to come up with one that should be able to carry him through these three months: _I need the money. _

At Regina's frantic hand gesture he pushes of the back of the land rover so she can lift the boot, making room for the luggage they have, before turning his head to watch _the clients _step off the plane with much unnecessary help from the man who he assumes is either the pilot or some sort of plane-butler.

"Who is everyone?" He asks, turning to Regina and burying his hands further into his leather jacket – which was not designed for the cold, he has now discovered.

"That's Mr Gold." She tells him, nodding to the first off the plane. He looks – even from the quite considerable distance away – to be about fifty with a sharp suit and long black cane that he uses to walk whilst the pilot-slash-plane-butler struggles with his bag.

The next out the small rounded-cornered door of the plane is a short woman who looks to be about thirty, a contributing factor to his surprise when Ruby introduces him as Belle, Mr Gold's wife.

"She's quite young." He comments mildly, musing that young wife is not out of sync with the stereo type for aging men of his social class.

Regina shrugs. "She's his second wife, he had Neal with his first." She says and – noticing the blank expression on his face at the name _Neal_ – nods to the third figure to step of the jet, a brown haired man with no particularly remarkable features.

"That's Neal and _that –" _She nods to the next person getting out of the plane " – is his girlfriend, Emma."

Killian looks up, momentarily distracted from the fact that _Mr Gold _is approaching and he really should keep up social formalities, too busy looking at the next person to manage the stairs and somehow managing to be taken aback by someone at such a considerable distance. She has blonde hair that the wind is blowing in all directions and – like him – has chosen to ignore the advice to get a proper snow-withstanding jacket and has likewise opted for a leather jacket, hers being red and hanging open over a black turtle neck.

His eyes are drawn from her by the approaching figure of Mr Gold, who looks – in Killian's humble opinion – to be even creepier up close as he gives Regina tight-lipped smile (he supposes they know each other by now) and pat on the shoulder, and looks as if he's about to move towards the car when his sharp eyes land on Killian and his expression settles into a frown.

"Where's Kate?" He says abruptly, giving Killian a once-over with an expression that borders on disapproving.

"She broke her leg." Regina supplies, and then nods to him. "This is Killian – he's the sub."

It's then that Belle comes up behind Mr Gold, all blue eyes and warm smiles, extending her hand to Killian which he manages to shake before plane-butler offloads the luggage onto him. "You must be Kate's replacement." Killian nods before turning to dumb the bag into the boot of the car whilst Mr Gold gives Belle an indignant "You knew?" as the two of them walk round to the car.

When he spins round from taking care of Gold's luggage Neal is already there, passing his onto him with a heavy sigh. "Kevin, was it?" He says in a casual tone whilst he scrolls through something or rather on his phone.

"Uh – _Killian." _He corrects, trying not to get snappy (apparently there's an un-spoken fourth rule: don't be rude to the clients) whilst he pushes the suitcase to the back of the boot, and when he spins round she's _there _and _lord help him _because all the things he didn't see – _couldn't _see – like the sharp green eyes and pink lips are _right there. _

"Regina!" She says, lips curving into a smile has she hugs his new _co-worker_, who is apparently also a friend and he notes to himself that she has a nice smile, chastising himself immediately afterwards because what kind of _rom-com_ protagonist is he, thinking about a girl's _smile. _

She turns to him. "You're not a girl." She says bluntly.

"I'm flattered you noticed." He says and she raises an eyebrow, extending her hand to him.

"Killian, right?" She says and he nods, thanking the lord that at least _someone _got it right.

"Emma." She says, withdrawing her hand just as the very name she's introduced herself with is called from the other side of the car in a voice he recognises as belonging to Neal. _Her boyfriend. _

_Fuck. _

She gives him a tight-lipped smile before sidestepping to the door of the car opening it and he can't help but follow her movements as she slides into the car, tight hugging jeans –

"Rule three." Regina says in a sing song voice as they walk over to her considerably smaller car – the one Killian had driven over because she didn't trust him with their bulldozer style rich people car – and he groans inwardly because _was it that obvious? _

"Yeah, yeah." He mutters as he slides into the passenger seat.

Of course, inside, he's not concurring at all. No – inside he's thinking that if he _is_ going to break one of those three rules – which is inherently likely considering he's pretty helpless at not doing just that – well then _god – green eyes, pink lips, tight jeans – _rule three would be the one to break.

* * *

The half hour drive from the landing pad to the Chalet is one Emma is, by this point, quite familiar with. And yet – on another one of these journeys – she finds herself unable to partake in the conversation that goes back and forth between the occupants of the car – something about something to do with money and something – too consumed with looking out the slightly frosted window, gazing out upon the vast mountains and valleys and trees and _everything. _

It's huge. Massive, made up of all different slopes and unexplored crevices, untainted snow that expands for _miles _and the whole thing, it's _vast _and _open _and it should make her feel _free _and _empowered _and yet – sitting in _this _car driving towards _that _house – Emma Swan has never felt more trapped.

It's a feeling that grows as his arm curls around her shoulder, pulling her away from the view she's so incessantly drawn to and back into the Gold universe where _of course _first on the list of conversation topics is the new chalet boy because to meet a new person and not immediately judge them – and judge them on the _five second_ impression you got of them before your attention span was instantly captured by something with a price tag – would be just _unheard _of.

"What was his name again?" Neal says. "Something weird and English."

"It was Killian." Emma says, thinking back to the crooked smile and dark hair and blue _blue _eyes and _fuck _he wore that leather jacket well and –

"Yeah, that was it. Seems alright, although I did like Kate."

_Oh, I bet you did. _Emma thinks dryly, mind switching to the what can only be described as very unsubtle _leering _that had taken place before Christmas when they'd last been up and Kate – nice girl, although rather dull – had been wearing the black dress that tended to be more on the _revealing _side.

Not that she can blame her; cooperate clients, all male, that dress probably did her a wonder in tips. It's just that sometimes she wishes she was in a long-term relationship with someone who she could actually talk _to _rather than _at _whilst he entertains himself with the view from across the room.

But – she _thinks _– when you love someone you take the good _with_ the bad. And loves Neal, she does. More importantly, her parents simply _adore _him. _So _glad they'd been, her finding a _nice _boy from a _nice _family with money of their own, someone who wasn't going to marry her for _hers. _

"I don't know." Gold says, shifting in his seat. "Seemed a bit _rough around the edges, _don't you think?"

_If by rough you mean ruggedly sexy – _

"I get what you mean." Neal says, now using the arm that isn't around Emma's shoulder to dig into his pocket, pulling out his iPhone and flicking through his twitter feed.

"You boys." Belle says as the car pulls into the all too familiar driveway. "Don't be so hard on him."

Emma can't help but agree, musing as she gets out the car that it can't be easy being caterer to this lot's high standards and lack of regard when it comes to firing new people who don't meet said standards.

She looks up at the house, still as obnoxious and imposing as ever and _god _she's so _ungrateful _because it is _beautiful _and she's sure anyone would _love _to spend a holiday here, to see it as a location for future family holidays with _children _and _wedding rings, _and yet, here she is, regarding it as though it's some kind of _prison –_

_But it is. _It's not a prison in the sense of walls or bars but in the sense that she's on holiday with her boyfriend and his parents and there's _expectations _and _etiquette_ and she has to behave like the _good girl _from the _good family _that she _is. _That she will always _be. _

She moves round to the boot, opening it and taking out her bag, struggling with it for a second because it's heavy and she almost drops it until two strong hands grip the sides, steadying her and her eyes travel upwards – leather jacket, scruff lined jaw, blue eyes, dark hair – and then he's there, giving her that _smile _again.

"Need a hand?" He asks, going to take it off her but she tightens her grip on it, tugging it back.

"It's fine." She says, swinging it over her shoulder and going to sidestep him until Neal's voice cuts through as he goes to get his own suitcase.

"Honey, why don't you give that to – uh – "

Emma rolls her eyes because is he really too far up his own bloody ass to remember a _name? _"For god's sakes – Neal – it's _Killian." _

His eyebrows dart up. "Christ, calm down, Em. I'm sure he doesn't mind." Neal – her charming _charming _boyfriend – says, moving away from the car and towards the house and with a reluctant huff she passes her bag to Killian.

"Sorry about that." She mutters as they head up the stairs, Regina up ahead and helping Belle and Gold with their bags.

"'S fine." He says. "Is a bit of a mouthful. Most people tend to call me by my surname."

She looks to him with an eyebrow raised in question. "Jones." He supplies and she nods, going to open the door but he beats her to it, letting her pass with a nod of the head.

"Swan." She says as she passes and he smiles again.

"Cool name." He says following her into the house and for a second she feels as if she would quite happily continue this conversation until Neal calling her name from the living room pulls her out of it, reminding her where she is and who she is, and then Regina's, calling to him for some help with the bags and then – with a fucking _wink – _he's off to do his job and she's off to do _hers._

And apparently – as she discovers when she reaches the living room – her job consists of listening politely to boring chatter about the family business whilst Belle pores over a Ski map and Emma groans inwardly because, in all honestly, she doesn't even _like _skiing.

But – of course – she still _goes _because where else does one spend their Christmases and New Years and every other weekend because apparently, when you have a _private jet _flying out to France to go skiing with clients is totally normal.

That's her – internally whining because she has to _ski _when she should be _grateful, grateful _for the fortune she's been blessed with. So _blessed _to be effectively tied to a guy she _thinks _she loves – although she's not even _sure – _and roped along to holidays with the spindly presence that is his father and eating delicacies like _Caviar _which she supposes she likes, although again isn't quite sure because for all she knows she only eats it because it's expected of her.

Fortunate indeed.

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_A/N: Hope you enjoyed, reviews are immensely appreciated._


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Don't own the thing, probably never will._

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As it transpires, there are a lot more than three rules to Chalet Personing. Although – Killian can't help but notice – it appears as if Regina is deliberately training them to _him _as they prepare dinner.

"And you're going to have to work on how you speak." She says, using her knife to scrape the carrots she's just chopped into the dish for the ratatouille.

He lets out an exasperated sigh, continuing with the dull and rather un-challenging task – he supposes that's why Regina assigned it to him – of cutting away herbs to use as flavouring for the lamb rack they're serving. "Okay, lass, I can concede with the _correct uniform _and _no innuendos _but what the bloody hell is wrong with how I speak?"

In reality, he'd agreed to her terms more to stop her incessant badgering, reasoning with himself that the uniform isn't _that _bad – black polo shirt with the logo of the catering agency, black trousers (for her a black skirt) – and that he can save his jokes for the _frequent phone calls_ he'd promised to Ruby.

"See – right there." She says, turning to him and pointing her knife at him in a way that doesn't look threatening _at all. _"There can be no _lass _or _love _or _bloody hell _to the Golds. Just – let me talk to them, alright?"

He shrugs in submission, thinking dry thoughts of how he is probably less than inclined to talk to any of them, expect maybe one –

"Sure, fine. Probably a good idea, I never _did _get my GCSE in _posh." _He says, proceeding to add the herbs to the racks of meat that sit out on trays.

When he lifts his head back up to Regina he finds her she's looking at him with a completive frown, hands on her hips and her head cocked to the side slightly. "Why are you here?" She asks bluntly, a question he's more or less put to bed now.

"Could ask you the same question." He says, peeling away cloves of garlic to crush.

"To snowboard, mainly. Although judging by the way you were looking at the mountains, to wit, as if you'd never _seen_ snow before, I'm guessing that's not really your thing."

Killian shrugs. "It's a job, right? I need the money." Him needing money – that's a truth if there ever was one. The sad fact remains that being a rather poorly educated twenty-four year old with no qualifications – a lacking that lies with his need to drop out of school after the disappearance of his father – pays unfortunately little.

"Well then you came to the right place." She says, taking a zucchini out of the brown paper bag and moving to run it under the tap.

"How so?" He asks, shuffling through one of the draws in a blind search for the garlic crusher. He finds it lodged under two sets of tongs and moves back to the counter and begins his task.

See – whist his skills in snow sport may hold a fundamental lacking, _cooking _is something he can do. It's a talent that's product of a quite frankly _useless _brother – one who's probably currently just about managing to live off a diet of tinned soup – and a best friend who works at a diner and whose charming grandmother was willing to part knowledge.

"It's not actually _that bad, _this job." Regina says. "The house is nice, this resort is nice, plus they're hardly ever even _here. _Just the odd long weekend every now and then."

He supposes she's right. Getting paid double what he usually does – plus tips – to slob around in a mansion and make a few meals every now and then? Entirely possible that he can uphold that for three months. Make some good money, pay those overdue bills (he's made a metal note to put some of his tips in the bank for Liam) and perhaps even use the extra cooking skills he's bound to acquire to become a chef or something slightly more fulfilling – or at least money making – than his current routine.

He dwells on this as he continues the preparation for dinner – chop, scrape, garnish, flavour – until the resounding _ding _of the oven timer fills the small kitchen and he's heaving himself up off his seat, helping Regina get the lamb out of the oven.

He has a plate of _lamb rack with ratatouille and potatoes dauphinoise _in each hand when Regina spins round, opening her mouth and closing it again. "Just – don't…_talk_ to them too much, okay?" She says and he rolls his eyes as they head out into the dining room.

Throughout the course of the dinner, Killian comes to the calculated conclusion that he is _so _not being paid enough for this.

Waiting on them shouldn't be a heinous task, for sure, and yet it seems as if they are deliberately trying to make it difficult. Surely, when a _kind _man is going to top up your wine glass you repay his kindness by _helpfully _making the glass accessible to the brim of the bottle.

Alas, the Golds seem hell bent on the very opposite, leaning over to get salt and condiments at the exact moment he tries to refill their beverage – because he is just _kind _like that (and Regina had given him strict instruction to do so) – leaving him standing there gritting his teeth.

And then there's their _conversations – _the one's from which he notices that the women of the table are more or less unceremoniously excluded, other than the odd contribution – and he gets the impression from the snippets of their discussion that he's more than likely to come out of these three months with more knowledge about the world of banking than is probably desirable.

He wonders as he brings out second portions of their meal if they would welcome a kind reminder that there are _other _topics that would be suitable for dinnertime conversation other than their family business. He also notices – because he finds his line of sight simply _drawn _in that direction – that Emma doesn't really participate at all. The talking she does to is in the form of slightly hushed chatter with Regina, laughing and smiling and she is – a notion that he hardly _tosses around _– beautiful.

She's also the only one who possesses an aspect of helpfulness, passing Neal's plate to him when her boyfriend leans across it to shake hands with his father in some garish bet, giving him an apologetic smile as she does so. And – although, he could be reading into things on this account – she seems – not _unhappy – _but rather uncomfortable being there.

It's in the way her eyes flicker to the large wooden clock in the corner of the rather _lavish _dining hall and in her murmured word of protest when Neal pulls her onto his lap, arms curling possessively around her waist and her smile looks forced and tight-lipped.

He and Regina are just serving the dessert – and the Golds have consumed the greater part of four bottles of wine – when Belle turns on him.

"It's very kind of you to step in for Kate like this." She says and he's about to refuse the compliment when Neal scoffs.

"Hardly doing it out of the goodness of his heart, Belle." He says, raising his glass to his lips. At this point, Killian looks to Emma, only to find her smiling softly at something. With a slightly bemused expression he realises she's reading a book on her phone under the table, and when he goes to top up her glass he's able to read the title as Pride and Prejudice.

"Still must have been short notice." Belle argues, looking up and smiling at Killian. "Where did you have to get here from?"

"London." He says simply, thinking semi-fond thoughts of the apartment he shares with his brother, Grannie's diner just around the corner, of Ruby and Whale and their little girl. Belle simply nods, Emma still subtly engrossed in her book, and he goes to clear the rest of the table.

"This looks bloody expensive." Killian says, examining the bottle of white wine that they've been going at as if it's water, now back in the kitchen and feeding off the remainders of the pudding. "What is this family business, then?" He asks. "They drug dealers or something?"

The voice that answers is not Regina's, as the question was directed to, but a voice from behind him. "If only – probably a hell of a lot more interesting than _banking." _

He spins round to find Emma leaning against the doorway, amused smile flirting at the corners of her lips.

"I imagine it would be." He says, settling further back into his chair and maintaining her gaze. "Although I couldn't help but notice you were entertaining yourself."

To this her eyebrows shoot up, the sarcastic quirk to her lips worth the risk of speaking out of turn, although he can practically _feel _the heat of Regina's glare boring into the back of his skull.

"Pride and Prejudice." He says. "Interesting choice."

He is relieved – although not entirely surprised (which is in itself, surprising) – to find she doesn't snap and unceremoniously fire him there and then, instead leans further into the frame of the door, crossing her legs at the ankle. "You've read it?" She asks.

He smiles softly. "More than once."

She holds his gaze for a second – searching and completive – before she drops it and moves to the mini-fridge at the front of the kitchen, pulling out another bottle of rich-people wine. She straightens up, pointing the bottle at Regina. "You – later. We need to catch up – I wanna hear all about this _Robin." _

Regina groans and Emma smiles, turning on her heal and heading back into the dining room, Killian following her movements with an arched neck and _god _she's intriguing –

His thoughts are interrupted by the thump of an object against the back of his head and when he looks to the ground he sees that Regina has thrown a bread roll at him. He turns around. "What was that for?" He asks indignantly.

"Rule three?" She replies in a similar tone. "I was also implying that you don't go all _pride and prejudice _on them."

Killian doesn't know strictly what she means by that, only that if she's referring to his steadily growing intrigue with the Swan girl then _that_ ship has sailed – and has been sailing smoothly – since she first snapped at her boyfriend for forgetting his name.

No, as far as he's concerned, rule three can go fuck itself.

When Emma returns to the table, she feels shaken. Why she is experiencing such a feeling is beyond her, although a small part of her brain – the one she generally opts to ignore – sings knowingly that it has more or less everything to do with the fact that the new chalet boy – the one with the dark hair and light scruff and blue eyes and that _smile – _has claimed to have read her favourite book more than once.

She knows it shouldn't make her feel shaken, that a ton of people have read that book and she muses that maybe it's the fact that Neal isn't one of them. For a while she had nagged him to read it, thinking for some god forsaken reason that his desire to share something with her – something other than money or food or a bed – would override his opinion that reading is a dull waste of time, but alas, no. Eventually she'd given up trying.

Reading under the table is a habit of which she never can pinpoint the beginning of, only that she's eternally grateful for her iPhone in that respect and the escape from family arguments and debates that it provides.

She puts the wine down on the table, going for her chair until strong arms curl around her waist and she's pulled back onto his lap, his head tucking into the crook of her neck. She smiles, content and yet with an element of _forced_ but she keeps it up.

For the rest of the evening, she smiles until even she believes it's real.

Emma tells herself that it's the jet lag that's keeping her from sleep, that even though the layover from England – where she's been living with Neal for the past four years despite their growing up in America – isn't that much, it's still the reason for her restless head and eyes that refuse to slip shut.

Pulling away the silky covers of the bed, and being careful not to wake her snoring boyfriend she slips out, shrugging on a hoodie and her slippers and padding out to the balcony. The chalet – for all its faults – does have a spectacular view and Emma is quite happily leading against the wooden railing, gazing out, when a voice from below cuts through the silence of the night.

It's a laugh and when Emma leans further, looking down she sees him – Killian – leaning against the gate with a phone to his ear.

"The house?" He says, turning and looking up – she quickly ducks out of sight – "Bloody massive, and I'm pretty sure I saw one of the paintings I learnt about at school in there." He turns back, leaning his forearms against the low stone wall that runs around the perimeter.

"And how is everyone coping with my absence?" He asks, hopping up onto the wall and sitting himself cross legged on it, leaning his back against the stone archway. "You guys keeping Liam from starving to death?"

She wonders briefly who Liam is – brother? Roommate? _Animal_? – before he speaks again and she finds herself listening, leaning her head against one of the wooden beams that runs up the length of the house.

"How's everything at home?" He asks. "How're Ruby and the lass?" There's a pause and then he chuckles at something – low and rich as it carries through the quiet night – and she finds the corners of her lips quirking up in a smile. "She's awake?" He says in a tone of surprise, but then it morphs into a laugh. "Just like her mother – eh? Yeah, put her on."

"Hey, sweetheart." He says after a moment and even though the dark she can tell he's smiling. "You missing your Uncle Killian?" He laughs again, fond and happy, and she finds something twisting low in her stomach. "Yeah, I miss you too, darling. Do me a favour and don't drive Mum and Dad too crazy while I'm gone?"

He chuckles again, rubbing at his scruff with his hand. "Love you too, angel." He says and somehow she feels a whimper lodge in the back of her throat, something sad about the way she leans further onto the beam as the chalet boy – the one she's effectively eaves dropping on – continues his endearing conversation with a child of some description.

She finds herself listening to him talk about nursery school and reading levels and trying to picture _Neal _like that, to picture him congratulating someone on learning to count to ten and she knows she _should _be able to – what with all the talk of _proposals_ and _marriage_ and _children_ – but she _can't _and it makes the seemingly ever present ache in the pit of her belly grow.

After about five minutes of sweet conversation with the child – she pictures a little girl standing somewhere with a smile on her face and an oversized phone clutched in her hand – the phone is apparently passed back to his friend and after a juvenile and laughter tainted "No, you hang up first" goodbye, one that has Emma stifling a laugh, he shuts off his phone.

He doesn't get up immediately, instead leans his head back against the arch. After a moment he reaches down lifting up his jumper to reveal his forearm, fingers brushing over a tattoo that Emma can't make out. He looks at it for a second for pulling the sleeve back down, hopping off the wall and trudging through the snow back into the house.

Emma stays out for a moment longer, tracing idle patterns on the railing of the balcony with her fingertips, mind swimming with newly implanted thoughts of children and blue eyes and light laughter before she sighs, sliding back into the bedroom where Neal is still snoring, completely unperturbed by her absence.

She slips back under the covers, trying to chase away the cold as she tucks herself into his arms. The covers are soft around her as his arm comes around her shoulder, pulling her close and yet – compared to how she'd felt, listening to some guy she'd met _yesterday _talk to a kid – Emma doesn't feel warm at all.

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_A/N: Chapter two! Hope you enjoyed :) _

_Review? _


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: Still not owning anything. _

_A/N: And today on "charlie should be revising for exams but instead she's writing fanfiction" we have chapterr thrreee! Enjoy :)_

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For the first couple of days, Killian isn't quite sure if he's just too lazy to suss out an alternative source of entertainment or if there really_ is_ nothing to do in a French ski resort when one doesn't ski or snowboard, and the days that follow his hurried depart pass in a state of general boredom.

Regina doesn't seem to mind, asking him – since he's "not doing anything with his time" – to make whatever has been planned to be served as afternoon tea for when the Golds come in from their days skiing and with no ulterior plans he concedes with a shrug. Baking isn't a difficult task and is one he is actually quite accomplished in performing; a talent that sources from making cakes for birthdays and more birthdays and afternoons spent baking with – _her. _

He supposes it's shown in the reception of his work; no foul comments from anyone at least, even Gold. Although, for that he wonders if the man – the one who has taken an apparent dislike to him, conveyed in the form of cold looks and subtle snarls – thinks that Regina is the one doing the baking, presumably the arrangement they had before his arrival.

If it helps – which it, of course, doesn't – Killian finds he isn't particularly _fond _of him either. There's something about him that he finds uncomfortably _reptile _like, and even though it appears to soften under the presence of his wife it's still _there_. Upon musing idly to himself what his first name is Killian comes to the conclusion that _crocodile _would do nicely.

What's more is how he just _dotes _on his son, most commonly wrongly consoling sniffy comments that either Belle or Emma have called him out on, telling them to _lighten up _in situations where they were perfectly _lightened up _and that it was _his _remark – occasionally misogynistic, mostly just plain _rude – _that was out of line.

And whilst he doesn't appreciate having to overhear such comments – thinking to the fiery reaction Grannie or Ruby would have – he does find himself withholding laughter at the biting retorts Emma comes out with, the way she rolls her eyes and folds her arms and one occasion on the second night _on the job _he can't help but bark out a laugh, one that he quickly disguises for a cough (although not before his eyes lock with Emma's and a smirk flirts at the corners of her lips).

Then, of course, Neal's laughter perturbs the moment, fond and happy as if she was simply _providing entertainment_ as opposed to actually having a bloody opinion. It's for these reasons that by the time he slides into bed at the end of his fourth night he has developed quite the distaste for Mr Gold and his son. He tells himself that his feelings of disdain towards the latter have nothing to do with the blonde who seems constantly – and reluctantly – in his arms, although there's a niggling in the back of his brain that knows it isn't quite true.

The very notion is just _irritating. _It's _irritating _and _infuriating _because over the course of the past few days he's found himself growing so _annoyingly _attracted to her – seeing her come back from a day's worth of skiing with flushed cheeks and shaken blonde curls – and it would be just _perfect _if it wasn't for the fact that not only is she completely out of his league (Regina has implied that _her_ family are hardly _struggling)_, she is in a long term relationship with a complete dickhead, said dickhead being the son of his current employer.

_Fantastic. Bloody fantastic._

And yet it doesn't seem to dwindle at all. If anything it gets _worse, _by the fourth night Killian finding himself looking forward to the end of the dinner – when they've all had enough to drink that he supposes she thinks she can get away with it – for when her phone comes out of her pocket and she resumes her _late night reading _under the table.

On said night he notices the choice of book switch from Pride and Prejudice to The Princess Bride. He can barely contain his smile as he refills her glass of wine because _would you look at that, _he's read that one too. Later that evening, when they cross paths in the hallway, he doesn't even hesitate before smirking and raising an eyebrow.

"The Princess Bride?" He asks, holding the door at the end of the corridor open for her.

"Shut up." She says with a juxtaposing smile as she walks through, moving down the corridor in the direction that he had just come from.

"As you wish!" He calls after her with a grin. The sound of her chuckle carries though the empty hall and he runs his tongue along his bottom lip in a subconscious action.

Thoughts of her – infuriating and intriguing and he hasn't been this…_captivated…_by _anyone _in _ages _– follow him to bed and he hears the chuckle that escaped her as his eyes slip shut and – goddamn him – he falls asleep with a subtle – but nevertheless stupid – smile on his face.

(It's a sleep that's plagued by the usual demons. Metallic screeching, tires skidding, police sirens –)

His smile is a curl to his lips that's gone by the time his alarm cuts through the quiet of his bedroom and he groans, flapping his hand frantically about the bedside table for the snooze button. He finds it only to have the newly found blissful silence perturbed by the sharp rapping of Regina at his door.

Fifteen minutes later and he's standing at the sink going at some eggs with a whisk just like Grannie had taught him, Regina grating the cheese on the other side of the counter.

She yawns as she does so, raising a hand to her mouth to stifle it whilst the rest of her body cracks under the weight. His mind switches to nights prior, the sounds of laughing – an apparent rarity from her, considering her so seemingly scathing attitude – drifting from her room to his and he wonders if her fatigue has anything to do with these late night phone calls to which she presumes are with the _Robin _that Emma had mentioned on his first night.

"God, I can't wait to sleep in tomorrow." She mutters, rubbing at her eyes and he frowns.

"Tomorrow being…?"

The look she gives him seems to suggest the very question is stupid, although he can't help but wonder by this point if it's just that highly sarcastic mildly condescending edge he's picked up on these past few days. "This lot having gone home…?" She says slowly and in such a tone that suggests this is information he should just _know – _though by what means, he isn't sure. "They're leaving when they get back from Skiing tonight."

"They came for a five day skiing holiday?" He asks whilst something strange – almost like disappointment – settles in his stomach. He pushes his now beaten eggs over to her.

Regina shrugs, taking them and moving over to the oven. "That's what you do when you live in England and have a private jet. Although they are back next weekend. Coming with _business clients." _Her nose scrunches up slightly at the idea in barely concealed distaste and he wonders what impossibly garish sort of people he's going to have to deal with when this time – five says from now – rolls around.

He exhales at the thought, pushing off the counter to help Regina cook and – abiding to rule one, was it? – by the time eight o'clock rolls he and Regina are bringing out the ham and cheese omelettes to where they all sit ready and waiting.

His eyes catch Emma's – as they always seem to – as he puts the salt and pepper down on the table before his gaze slips and he's heading back into the kitchen.

"You alright, babe?" He hears Neal ask Emma, sees from the corner of his eye as he pushes through the door her boyfriend placing a hand over one of hers and when she replies with "I'm not sure…" he can tell there's something odd about her voice.

Like a child playing sick to get out of school.

* * *

Emma isn't entirely _fond _of the idea of lying.

Which is why – as she sighs, rubbing at her eyes and sniffling – she assures herself that it isn't a complete lie, saying she's feeling unwell, because in all honesty, she is. It is only _really _a lie in the sense that her feeling of lethargy and general fatigue is more or less tied to the idea of another's day skiing. The very thought of more tiresome slopes, memories of Neal sending them down the hardest ones as if he needs to assert his _manliness _with unnecessarily difficult skiing.

"I think I'm coming down with something." She says, rubbing at her head with the heel of her hand and Neal cocks his head to the side.

"You want to stay here?" He asks, playing the part of _kind concerned _boyfriend. It would be quite the convincing act, too, if she doesn't catch onto the way his eyes flicker to his father's and she _swears _she sees him roll them to the ceiling.

"Yeah." She says in a not entirely falsely tired voice. She pushes away from the table, his hand running over her back as Killian enters the room with more omelettes.

"Killian." Neal says – she's glad to see he's _finally_ learnt his name – lifting his head to meet the gaze of the dark haired chalet boy. "Emma's staying at home today – you'll make sure she's alright?"

For a second she thinks he might be a snarky idiot and say _as you wish _– because apparently he has _also _read that book, another one that Neal hasn't and she _really _needs to stop comparing them two – but he relieves her by simply smiling, placing second portions of breakfast down by Gold and Belle. "Gladly."

"Thanks." She says quietly, eyes locking with his for a second as she moves away from the table and out of the dining room.

Emma does go back to bed – she never _has_ liked the idea of having to get up early on what's supposed to be a _holiday – _but only for a bit. Only to see Neal come in to brush his teeth – and to put on a lazy smile at his _"Hmm…maybe I should stay in bed with you…" – _and shrug on his ski jacket, to hear the slam of the front door as they head out.

She stays for a bit longer, contemplating in the quiet hum of the bedroom the benefits of staying at home whilst everyone else is out partaking in a sport she doesn't _particularly_ enjoy. Then she gets up, tugging on a hoodie and padding out into the hallway with a mind for some crap French television.

When she gets to the living room, however, she finds it not unoccupied like she'd thought, instead filled with the gentle melody of someone playing a guitar.

It's him.

Of _course _it would be him, stretched across the couch with his back to her, acoustic guitar on his lap as he plays something she thinks she recognises. Of fucking _course _it's him because to _just _be attractive and have a sexy accent and read all her favourite books wouldn't be enough _at all _and he just _has _to able to play guitar as well.

_Fuck._

She listens for a bit, leaning her head against the frame of the door, waiting until he stops playing for a moment to speak up.

"You're good." She says and she can see from where he sits on the sofa that he jumps, turning his head to her with a startled look on his face.

"Bloody hell, lass, you scared me." He says, bringing up a hand to shake his already stubbornly messy mop of black hair.

"Sorry." She apologises as she moves into the room, collapsing onto the sofa opposite his and she can feel the heat of his gaze as his eyes follow her movements.

In all honesty, it's not a feeling that has been foreign to her these past few days. In fact, on more than one occasion her eyes have flickered to him – serving dinner, pouring wine, whatever – only to find his on her. It would probably be less distracting – which it is, raising your head to find the hot chalet boy looking at you – it he would avert his gaze but – _annoying handsome idiot_ – his gaze lingers, ghost of a soft barely-there smile and she's damned if she doesn't blush a bit.

This time, she ignores it, settling her head into the cushion at the end and when her eyes inevitably drift back to him – hair mussed, eyes dancing with amusement, dark wood guitar resting comfortably on his lap with his legs crossed under him – he's looking at her with an arched eyebrow.

"Please, continue." She says and a crooked smile tugs at the corners of his lips and sure enough, the melodic tang of the strings resumes, practiced fingers moving against the guitar.

For a while – maybe several minutes, possibly more – she just listens, head cocked to the side slightly where it rests on the cushion, expression completive and occasionally his eyes flicker from his guitar and up to meet hers, shining and sparkling before he slowly ducks his head again, the dark hair that's usually pushed back falling in front of her eyes and she wants – she _itches, _an annoying and _wildly _inappropriate _itch – _to push it back, maybe card her fingers through it –

A few more minutes pass dwelling in the sound of his soft playing – she thinks that he might be playing a song, or maybe several, all gentle melodies and delicate fingerpicking – and with each ring of his guitar a stirring curiosity rings out in her, strange and nagging and tugging and she doesn't even _know _this guy and here she is, feeling like she _should_, like she wants to. Feeling like idle fact – random notions like how he came to be so skilled on the guitar, who taught him, whether or not he plays often – like these all should be things that she _knows_.

"I don't remember seeing this in the job description." He says over his playing, eyes locking onto hers and he doesn't even need to look at his instrument to play, talented fingers – "_Surely_ I should be paid extra."

She holds his gaze. "I'm sure if you re-read your contract there is _something _about playing guitar to _poor, sick_ clients."

He sinks back further into the couch, fingers still working delicately – and now quietly – against the strings and for one brief and crazy _deluded _second all she can see is them dancing up her skin, tangling in her hair, slipping under her shirt and she needs to _stop –_

"You're sick?" He says and her brow creases with confusion because surely he heard the conversation in the dining room, he replied, didn't he?

"Yes." She says slowly. "Why else would I not be skiing?"

"I don't know." He says at a similar pace and Emma doesn't know if it's the accent or what but the words seem to simply _roll _off his tongue. Their gazes lock from across the small space and for a second she just looks, thinking to herself that surely he's not implying what she thinks he's implying, to wit, the idea that she isn't _actually _sick and is only _pretending _to be sick, which is, consequently, the half-truth –

"You've never done this before, have you?" She says, a comment that doesn't so much refer taking his skills as a cook – which she would suppose upon idle musing is the fundamental function of a chalet person – into account but more the fact that unlike other more tip-toey chalet people they've had in the past – one's that were shy and reserved and preferred to serve the food and save the chit-chat – he seems to possess a lack of a verbal filter, and one which appears to be voluntary.

He stops playing, smirk twisting his lips as he rests his forearm against the top of his guitar. "What gave me away?" He asks, amusement shining in his eyes. "Was it the accent? Regina thinks it's the accent."

"More the brashness thing." She explains, eyes drifting to where his fingers rub against the edge of the guitar – stupid and _inappropriate _thoughts swimming into her mind again – "Not many would point out something like _reading under the table_. You don't seem the sort to hold your tongue."

His smirk widens, tongue running along his top teeth – _fuck – _and then he shrugs his shoulders. "Never was my forte." He stretches his arm out along the back of the sofa, nails scratching idly at the material along the top of the cushion and the action turns his wrist and forearm, the tattoo she'd noticed him rubbing at the other night coming into sight and she frowns, eyes falling upon it.

Inked into his skin is a heart, red with a dagger plunging through it and a scroll that wraps around. She can't tell what it says from this far off, only that she thinks it might be a name and she makes the mistake of squinting slightly, brow creasing.

His eyes fall upon hers and he follows her gaze, eyes drifting to his forearm and when he realises what she's looking at he withdraws his it – something dark and haunted shadowing his expression, the gleam in his eyes – and he slides it away from the cream cushion of the sofa and back to rest on his guitar, bleeding heart now out of sight.

The tension seems to thicken ten-fold, the very air around them seems to shift, something palpable and lingering and she knows – knows by the way he bites slightly on his bottom lip, the way picks at his fingernails – that that tattoo is more than a fashion statement brought on by pushy friends and liquid courage.

His next move confirms it, something restricted about the way he pushes his guitar off his lap, resting it on the other side of the sofa and with a carefully avoided gaze – _what the hell does that tattoo mean? _– and with hands pushing against his knees he gets up, scratching at his scruff in a slightly awkward gesture. His eyes flicker to the clock, the one which reads sometime after midday – maybe she stayed in bed longer than she thought, or listened to him play guitar longer –

"Lunch?" He says, nodding to the clock that graces the space above the fireplace.

"Lunch?" She repeats and he finally lets his head turn back to her, hands finding their way into his pockets as he rocks slightly on the balls of his feet. There's a shadow of a smirk gracing his lips and some of the tension –_red heart, scroll with a word, maybe a name _– disperses.

"Yes." He says. "See – whilst the guitar playing is questionable – preparing meals definitely _was _in the job description."

She huffs out a sort of laugh, pushing herself off the sofa. She's sure he would happily bring her lunch if she so desired, but with Neal and Gold and Belle out – the people who serve as heavy reminders for _who she is_ and the world and way of life to which she belongs – she can't quite bring herself – whether it be the _eyes_ or the _smirk_ or the guitar playing – to play Spoilt Rich Girl today. Something – a quiet niggling in the back of her brain – tells her that maybe it's something about _him_.

"What are we having?" She asks, picking up the cushion that had fallen on the floor come her upheaval from her lounging position.

"We?" He smirks, any last lingering tension or tightness breezed away by the return of the dance to his eyes.

"Well – I'm assuming so." She says as she exits the room – noticing his lack of a move to do so – casting him an over the shoulder glance. "Or had you depicted us with differing tastes in food?"

He stays still for a moment – looking at her with parted lips and calculating eyes – before he rocks forward, following her out of the room. "I suppose I did." He says, stepping to her side as she walks the familiar path to the kitchen. "I had been thinking more on the lines of toasted bacon sandwich for myself and something more like _caviar _for you."

To that she lets out a full on snort – one that has him grinning – before she scrunches up her nose, pushing open one of the many unnecessary doors in the chalet. "I'll let you in on a secret." She says, eyes shifting to his and he raises an eyebrow in question. "I hate caviar."

His smile widens. "Bacon then?" He suggests, sliding in front of her to push the door to the kitchen open with his back.

"Sounds great." She smiles, following him in.

The chalet kitchen is not one she is unfamiliar with, despite the customs that suggest she is rarely – supposedly never – the one doing the cooking.

However, Emma has found that dinners as apparently lavish and delicacy-succulent as the one's she is served whilst being an extension to this family often seem to serve well for a gnawing hunger in the middle of the night. By this point – five years having passed since she began her relationship with Neal, and therefore her visits to the chalet – she is well familiarised with the whereabouts of ice cream, cheese, crackers, ect., and she doesn't feel particularly out of place as she slides into one of the two stools that sit by the counter, the one that stands in the middle of the room and has a raised dining surface and lowered food preparation post.

She watches – growing hungrier by the second (for food, of course…) – as Killian moves round the kitchen, taking packets of bacon from the fridge and slices of bread from the bread bin. He places the rashers of bacon on a plate, moving to put them in the microwave.

"You're not going to cook them on a pan?" She asks with a raised eyebrow. His response is detailed and carries much further thought than what you would expect from a topic that revolves around bacon.

(She finds herself not listening to him explain how you end up with a sandwich too dry, instead shamelessly – or maybe with a _little _shame – watching the way his mouth moves.)

He puts the bacon in the microwave, setting it to the correct time, but doesn't set it off. He then puts the toast into the toaster and starts cooking them, immediately turning back around and leaning against the counter that lines the wall. His eyes are fixed downwards, wrist raised up slightly and she realises that he's staring quite intently at his digital watch.

"Are you timing – ?" She is cut off by his sharp shush, one that makes her cock an eyebrow, and after an extended period of time he draws his eyes away from his watch, spinning around and setting the microwave off. He turns back around.

"And that was about…?" She asks.

"Timing." He replies. "You need to time one minute after you put the toast on before you start cooking the bacon in order to have them done at the same time."

"And they have to be done at the same time?" She presumes, putting her elbows onto the counter and resting her chin on her clasped hands.

"Naturally." He says. "Otherwise you end up with either toast that's gone cold or bacon that's gone cold."

"The horror." She says, biting her bottom lip slightly, eyes shining and he arches an eyebrow, burying his hands further into his pockets.

"Don't joke about cold bacon sandwiches, love." The endearment falls easily from his lips, his tone is pointedly serious and she scoffs out a laugh, shaking her head slightly and rolling her eyes. When she looks back to him she finds him looking at her – not unusual, considering these past few days – and with a look that seems to be dripping with _meaning. _A soft smile quirks his lips, eyes shining and there's emotion and –

The sound of the toast jumping up – which, of course, coincides with the beeping of the microwave – cuts through the moment and he turns away from her, moving round to retrieve the toast and bacon. He pulls a chopping board out from under the table and begins assembling the sandwiches with practiced hands.

"Crusts?" He asks, looking up at her with his knife poised above her sandwich.

"I've always been told cutting the crusts off is bad for you." She says, thinking to stern looks from her mother, a raised eyebrow from Neal. And about _bread crusts_, no less.

"Then I'm afraid to say you've been lied to. On or off?"

"Off." She says and he obeys, slicing off the crusts to her sandwich, cutting it in half before putting it on a plate and sliding it over to her. He doesn't bother with a plate for himself, simply picks his straight up off the chopping board and Emma eats hers thinking that she would probably be content if she never had to eat the supposed delicacies of this country – snails, frog legs; two things has always found rather repulsive – ever again, and she muses that she would be more than happy to have Killian make her a toasted bacon sandwich each night.

When he's done with his he dusts his hands off, sucking some crumbs from his thumb before turning round to wash his hands in the sink. Emma is still enjoying her lunch as he cleans away the counter, still finishing off her sandwich as – rather than leaving the kitchen tidy – he begins to pull out more things from the cupboards and the fridge – flour, sugar, butter eggs – and she frowns as she pushes the last bite of her lunch into her mouth.

"You making something?" She asks once she's done, watching as he pulls out the scales from behind him. He nods, pulling out a piece of paper from his pocket – one that appears to have a list of all various different meals – before folding it and putting it away again.

"Chocolate chip scones." He tells her, unwrapping the bags of flour and sugar, placing a large glass bowl on the scales and messing around with the buttons.

"For…?"

"Your lot's afternoon tea?" He offers. "It does come from somewhere, you know."

She rolls her eyes the condescending edge to his voice. "Yeah – no shit. I just thought Regina was the one doing the baking."

She supposes it's an assumption that is product of both the fact that it was always Regina doing it before – Kate's talents had lied in savoury food, not sweet – and also the rather shallow difficulty in supposing that the male chalet boy is the one making _lemon drizzle cake _and _hot cross buns. _

Although, the latter may be less to do with any stereotype of men not being able to bake and more to do with the fact that she's sure Neal – as well as Gold and her father, probably – would struggle to do as much as crack eggs.

"That's fair." He concedes with a shrug, carelessly flipping pages of a recipe book. "I know my rugged good looks don't really scream _baker." _

She scoffs at the shameless arrogance to his statement – certainly not at any lack of truth – and his eyes are sparkling with bemusement when they find hers.

"You got some girlfriend you bake for, then?" The question is past her lips before she has a chance to consider the intent – what does it matter if he has a girlfriend? She has a boyfriend, so his relationship status is entirely irrelevant –

"Nope." He replies, barely concealing a smug sort of grin at the nature of her question as he shakes flour from its bag and into the bowl that sits on the scales. "Just a useless brother and weird friends."

At such a mention her mind switches to a few nights ago – his phone call, mention of a Liam and endearing conversation with a little girl – and her lips tilt up at the memory. "Did one of them teach you how to bake?" She asks, sliding down her arms and folding them to rest on the counter, leaning her chin against them.

"Sort of – Ruby – my friend Ruby, her grandmother did." Something fond and happy colours his expression as she slides out of her stool, brushing past him as she heads for the fridge, pulling out a diet coke and heading back to her seat. His eyes flicker from his work – eggs cracked, whisking something – and follow her as she does so and she knows what he's thinking.

Hardly _normal – _as strangely and serendipitously natural as it _is_ – to be voluntarily hanging out in the kitchen with the chalet boy when she's supposed to be _ill – _a charade that she's more or less given up on by this point. Sure, she's done it before with Regina, but that's after five years or so of bridging a strange sort of friendship.

Killian – on the other hand – she's known for the better part of four days, and yet, there's something strangely comfortable and _enjoyable _about the way she sits opposite as he prepares the food for later, answering her questions about the person who taught him how to bake, making her chuckle and roll her eyes with stupid humour, eyes finding hers as he does so, mischief and _more _swimming in them.

It's weird and _easy _and after a bit she finds herself carelessly pushing away the warning notions of how _inappropriate_ it is – pulling a sicky to chat with the chalet boy with the chaotic mess of dark hair and sparkling blue eyes whilst her boyfriend (long term, serious _boyfriend) _skis with his parents – instead just enjoying listening to him tell her about this diner in London and his brother (who _is _Liam) and she even discovers the identity of the girl – Anna, god daughter.

It's only until he's taken the scones out of the oven and returns to the mixing bowl does any awkwardness or tension grace their quiet afternoon. He puts them onto a cooling rack and slides them off to the side before picking up the wooden spoon he'd been using to scrape the remainder of the mixture from the side of the bowl.

A few chocolate chips still left he hands the spoon over for her to taste – which she does, happily – and when she hands it back, eyes once again falling upon his forearm, a crippling curiosity overrides her and she finds herself with a sudden lack of subtlety and tact. Reaching forward she latches onto his withdrawing hand with hers. She feels a light blush climb her cheeks as she does so but she ignores it, heat gathering between them and the whole room seems to hum with tension as her eyes drift over the tattoo.

"Milah." She murmurs after a moment, letting his hand fall away from hers.

"Aye." He says quietly, something dark lacing his tone and she opens her mouth to apologise, eyes locking onto his again when the tell-tale sound of doors and keys and shuffling and _Neal _perturbs the moment. Both their heads snap towards the door, the sound of voices drifting through.

She sighs, sardonic thoughts of _that's my cue _drifting through her head as she slides out the stool, making a mental note to look a little more _ill. _"Thanks for lunch and stuff." She says as she pushes the stool under the counter with her foot.

"No worries." He says and with something that feels oddly like reluctance – probably because it _is _reluctance, which it really _shouldn't_ be – she exits the kitchen.

* * *

As soon as she's gone, door swinging shut behind her, Killian groans, titling his head back to look at the ceiling as if the white wash paint and blaring lights could provide some sort of release – or at least explanation – to the feeling that dwells in his gut, as if shutting his eyes momentarily will calm his heart.

When both fail to happen he drops his head back forward, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands before bringing them back, running them through his hair and shaking what's already a mess.

The soft tone to her voice rings in his ears, murmuring the name he hasn't heard in _ages. _The name that hurts, the name aches, _still _after all this time.

Two sensations – crippling and suffocating – that he's learnt to push away, his friends and brother knowing better than to bring her up, to speak of the accident –

But then there's her. Emma. Rocking the boat, pulling his arm back, fingers brushing his and it's warm and cold and there's something just _electric _about her touch.

There's something electric about _her. _If he couldn't see it before – if locking gazes over the dining room and shared interest in books wasn't enough – well then _god _he can see it now.

He exhales heavily, mind swimming with memories of the events of the day; guitar playing, lunch making, scones, idle chit-chat and what he'd felt before – physical attraction and kindling intrigue – has, as much as he furiously denies it, wills himself to reverse it, grown into something more.

Regina comes in then, looking flushed and tired from a day's skiing, grumbling about ignorant people on the slopes as she admires his work, cocking her head to the side in a mildly impressed manner before she goes about making tea.

He takes the scones and puts them onto a plate, getting the clotted cream and jam from the fridge, heart rate settling to normal as he puts the plates onto the table on wheels they use to serve afternoon tea, fetching spoons and knifes and doing the same.

He leans against the wall as Regina finishes making the tea – one pot earl grey, one lady grey – placing the teacups – because they are of course too _regal _for mugs – and saucers onto the table.

They're all sitting round the living room as normal when him and Regina bring in the tea, Neal's arm around Emma with Belle saying something about half an hour until they should start getting ready to go (Not that it matters, he thinks, given that it's _their _plane and _their _pilot).

"Were you alright today?" He hears Neal ask Emma as he refills Belle's cup. "Did Killian help you with lunch?"

He turns his head at the mention of his name and in time to see Emma smile, eyes finding his. "Yeah." She says. "He was great."

Neal gives him a brief nod in thanks – probably as good a recognition as Killian would ever get from him – but Emma's gaze lingers and he curses himself if he's overthinking it, overseeing it, but he swears to god there's something _there. _

It stays on his mind for the rest of the afternoon, cleaning up the dishes – a feat that would be a hell of a lot easier if they would use mugs instead of bloody teacups – and loading their bags – the one's he now realises are stupidly heavy for _five days _– into their car, sliding into the passenger seat of Regina's as dusk settles over the snowy resort.

The cold – frosty and bitter at this evening hour – bites at Killian's hands as he steps out of Regina's car and he instantly stuffs them into his pockets, craning his neck to watch their car roll into the car park of the landing strip. It pulls up a short distance away from them and they move over, waiting for the click that signals the unlocking of the Land Rover to open the boot, beginning to take out the suitcases as they get out of their car.

* * *

Killian hands Neal's suitcase to him, noting with an internal tut that he doesn't thank him, too busy looking around the space with an unimpressed look on his face.

He turns back, pulling out a second suitcase, one that he recognises to be Emma's and when he turns back she's there, taking the item of luggage off him with a grateful smile.

"Thanks." She says, slinging the bag over her shoulder. She turns her head, looking back to the plane before forward to Killian again. "See you next weekend, then."

He smiles, eyes no doubt shining as he takes her extended hand. "I look forward to it."

She stays there for a moment longer before withdrawing her hand and then her eyes flicker down – _Jesus Christ – _falling on his lips and his breath nearly hitches in his throat as she meets his gaze one last time before turning around, walking up to where Neal waits for her (on his phone, no doubt.)

He is so busy watching her walk up to the plane – jeans hugging her legs in that way he's noticed they do and _she was looking at his lips – _he hardly even registers Belle's polite cough. It's lucky that he does, however, and he goes immediately to pull the last of the bags from the boot of the car.

She takes the case off him, letting it drop to the floor as Regina comes up to stand beside him. Belle rummages around in the pocket of her coat, Gold huffing impatiently some three meters away, before she finds what she's looking for, drawing out the two white envelopes.

"This is for all your hard work." The Australian says, handing him and Regina an envelope each. She nods to their thanks, smiling sweetly, before picks up her luggage, walking quickly to catch up to her husband.

Him and Regina watch the plane take off with craned necks before moving toward their respective rides back. Killian's drive is filled with whimsical notions of eyes on his lips, blonde curls and soft chuckles as well as idle wonderings of how he's going to spend these next six days.

Although in some respect – or perhaps lacking such a thing in for _himself_ – he already knows.

Most likely French television, guitar playing and more – many _many _more – of the lazy thoughts that stay with him for the whole half hour drive back, the vast white mountains, snow covered fields and the massive frozen lake – the sights he had marvelled over just four days ago – being more or less completely ignored.

* * *

He's sitting in the living room nursing a steaming cup of coffee, Regina drawling away about her day to the end of her phone from the other side of the couch, when he remembers the envelope – what he assumes is his tip.

He is retrieving it from his pocket and tearing away the seal when Regina hangs up her phone. His eyes widen as he pulls out the cash, fingers flipping through and counting the notes.

"Bloody hell." He says. "Hundred euro tip for four days? Are you _sure _they're not drug dealers?" He turns to Regina whose head snaps to his, frown bending her brow.

"A hundred?" She repeats, withdrawing her own envelope and counting through what's there. She looks to hers and then back to him, scowl curling her lips. "I only got eighty." She mutters, something annoyed about the way she yanks the remote from the coffee table, jabbing at the buttons till the TV comes on.

Confusion riddling his mind, he goes back to his tip, shuffling through the foreign money once more just to make sure he hadn't miscounted. Why would they give him more money than Regina? It doesn't make sense –

He pauses as his thumb comes into contact with something he hadn't noticed before: a small yellow post-it note. He peels it away from the twenty, and as he reads it a slow grin works its way onto his face.

_For the guitar playing.  
E._

Silently glad that Regina is too engrossed in the large television to notice, knowing her eyebrows would be raised and her tone judgemental, Killian folds the post-it note and slips it into his pocket.

And all of a sudden – contrary, he is sure, to Regina and most likely _any _chalet person with a week-long break, Killian honestly can't wait for it to end.

* * *

_A/N: Hope you enjoyed! I'm loving writing this fic :D Thanks for all the messages and reviews :) If you haven't already done so, reviiewwwww :) xx_


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